


Men Like You

by mageswagger



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blackwatch Jesse McCree, M/M, References to Transphobia, Yakuza!Hanzo, Young!Hanzo, Young!McCree, complicated family emotions, more tags as story progresses, onesided Reaper/McCree, supportive parents, trans!McCree
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 06:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7834606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mageswagger/pseuds/mageswagger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jesse’d always had a complex relationship with his father. He realized this wasn’t unusual - lots of people had strange family ties - but even if someone’d ask him what he thought of the man he couldn’t give a straight answer. </p>
<p>It wasn't very often that he met someone with a similar dilemma, but Hanzo came pretty damn close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> fic is heavily influnced by the song Daddy Lessons by Beyonce tbh

Jesse was twelve, tall and gangly for his age, made up of lean muscle from years of kickboxing and lessons down at the range. Despite what people thought of him everyone knew he was the best damn shot in town, barrin’ of course his father. No one could deny the way Jesse could shoot a target dead center, or the way a can never lasted long on a fence post whenever Jesse walked by with an old shotgun resting against his narrow shoulder. 

He'd not been in town for more than a few months when everyone finally realized that the kid in shredded bluejeans and cowboy boots wasn't just dead set on lookin' tough. The final straw had been when a boy in class had tried to tug on McCree's hair and had wound up with a bruised impression of his bony knuckles on his jaw. Jesse'd been called to the front office and the principal was ripshit, but the moment his father'd come in the man had ripped the principal a new one for waistin' his time.

_ "You mean to tell me another kid assaulted mine, and mine's the one that got in trouble?" _

Jesse smiled, slow and sad as they stared down at their boots. Despite his flaws, his daddy tried awful hard. Often enough he wondered why his pa hadn't tried so hard when it came to his mother. Surely a man so determined to fix things wouldn't have abandoned them in the first place, right?

The night was dark and humid, makin’ sweat cling to his brow as he stared up at the stars over the desert sands and wondered if maybe they would be better at answerin’ their questions. Lord knew he had too many. Felt like he never stopped askin’ ‘em.

“What on earth are you doin’ out here, darlin’?”

Heavy footsteps fell on old wood as James McCree made his way out to the porch and took a seat on the stairs by his child, huffing under the exertion it put on his knees and aging back. Jesse could see him from his peripherals but didn’t turn to face him. Not when anxiety was already startin’ to dance along his spine.

“Watchin’ the stars,” he answered in a low and husky voice, just like his mama’s (as he'd been told time and time again by nearly anyone he met that'd known the woman), his gaze upwards.

James gave a low laugh, chucklin’ and shakin’ his head, and then sighed sadly. “Yeah. Your mama liked to do the same. That’s how I met her, ya know. We both sat out watchin’ the stars down in the park on Sycamore Street. Nine months later, there you were.”

But where were you, Jesse wanted to ask. He couldn’t - he couldn’t even dream of forcing the words from his throat, because God but didn’t that feel like a condemnation? Didn’t that feel like a demand they couldn’t dream of placing on their poor pa’s shoulders? Man was broke as a beggar eighty percent of the time, not for lack of trying, and even if he hadn't been there at first he'd not complained a lick when the news came that Jesse had no one else but him. Would a bad man open his door to a kid he hadn't wanted and treat him like the fuckin' center of the world regardless?

Fuck, things were complicated. Jesse didn't know if he was wrong for forgivin' the man or worse for not.

“Daddy, I-” Jesse’s voice failed, croaking off weakly into the night and taking his confession with it. He could see James’ head turned to eye him, but he didn’t make any demands - didn’t pressure. He just waited, and God but how could Jesse ever hate a man who’d raised him so well? How could he sit here, ready to break the old fool’s heart?

“You can talk to me, darlin’,” he said. His large brown hand rested on Jesse’s shoulder, warm and familiar. “Ain’t nothin’ I wouldn’t do for you now, you know that.”

“I know,” he agreed. They didn’t sound as sure as they’d wanted to.

The silence returned and the duo let it sit for a while, not tempted enough to break it until James gave another soft sigh and let his old and tired eyes drift back up. “Jesse, you know, I know I ain’t been the best father I coulda been. I know I coulda done better - for you and your mama - but I love you. I loved your ma too, for all I couldn’t show it. I know that you hold some hatred for me after what I’d done, and I can’t say that I blame you. Sometimes I hate myself a good bit too. But you’re my daughter-”

“I’m not,” Jesse blurted. His eyes widened. That wasn’t how he'd wanted - he forced himself to keep speaking, knowing that the implications of the words he'd erroneously stuttered were so much crueler than the truth, and they sputtered onward, “I - Daddy, I’m a boy.”

Silence again. The hand on his shoulder never left. Finally, after what felt like a lifetime and really only could have been nothin’ more than ten seconds, James said: “How long?”

Jesse forced himself to turn his head, to meet his father’s old and tired eyes head on, but now it was James who was starin’ up at the stars like he was missing something. Like they held the answers to questions he didn't know to ask. Was that a good sign or a bad sign? Jesse’s stomach churned. “A few years. Since I was nine.” Since his ma had died and he’d been left to the father he hadn’t known was alive until that instant.

Instead of pushin’ him away like he thought James mighta done, his dad wrapped his arm around his narrow shoulders and tucked him under his arm. “You mean to say you’ve been lettin’ me call you the wrong thing for three whole years and never thought to tell me?”

The relief was almost palpable and before Jesse could even think to explain he was crying under the weight of it all suddenly vanishing. His shoulders were trembling under the heft of his father’s arm, and his cheeks were flushed and wet from tears, and his daddy just held him there and let him get it all out. “I didn’t know - everyone in town is-”

“Everyone in town ain’t your father, son,” James said firmly. 

Jesse didn’t think it was possible to love the man more than he did in that moment. He sobbed harder.

“Everyone in town can go fuck themselves,” he continued. Then added, “They don’t mean a lick. You still want me to call you Jesse?”

“Yeah,” he rasped. James nodded.

“Alright then. J-E-S-S-I-E?”

Jesse shook his head. “Nah. I dropped the I.”

“I can remember that. Might mess up a few times though. Did your ma-?”

“No,” Jesse answered thickly, not wantin’ him to finish. “I never got to tell her.”

He never got to know whether his mama woulda loved him still knowing that her little girl had never been a little girl, that the dresses she’d bought were worn only to make her smile cause he was to afraid to break her sickly and frail heart. 

“Bet she woulda loved you all the same,” James said. “She was always a better person than me. Don’t know why she saw anythin’ at all in me, and can’t say I made her proud. Not while she was livin’.” He ruffled his son’s hair. “But I’mma do right by you, Jesse. I swear it, darlin’. Can I still call you darlin’?”

Jesse was silent for a moment before daring to whisper, voice still wet and frail and trembling like the autumn breeze, “Yeah. You can call me darlin’.”

* * *

 

Jesse shoulda known that fate wasn’t gonna let him have any happiness for too long. He was fourteen, his breasts (which had never been very large to begin with) secured under a subtle binder while his narrow hips were squeezed into a pair of work jeans. The testosterone he’d been takin’ since talkin’ to his father that warm autumn night had the beginnings of stubble dotting his square jaw, hidin’ the lingering softness of his cheeks. Cowboy boots passed down from James protected his feet, sand-stained and well worn, and on his head sat a brand new hat that was about a size too big, but one of the damn nicest things he’d ever owned and the most expensive gift his father could afford to give ‘em.

“You saw those men comin’ into town, Jesse,” James said as they walked along the strip in town, hands shoved in his pockets and a slow and easy swagger to each step. After a few years of secret practice, Jesse had gotten pretty good at emulating them. “They’re bad news. Some gang that think’s they’re tough shit.”

“Don’t everyone think they’re tough shit?” Jesse asked. His voice had deepened but still kept that husky breeze to it that he’d inherited from his mother. He couldn’t bring himself to train it out of him. It was all he had left of her.

“Sure do,” James agreed, “but it’s boys that like to show off their gun that’re the most dangerous ones. I worry ‘bout you sometimes.”

“I don’t show off my gun,” he said with a furrowed brow. “It’s back at hope, locked up in the safe, like always.”

James shook his head again and placed a large, wrinkled and calloused hand on his shoulder. Jesse stubbornly pushed down the signs of aging from his mind. He couldn't think about that. “I know I can trust you not to go makin’ a stupid decision,” he said. “Got that from your mother, too. But I’m worried about what they’ll do to a kid like you, darlin’. Given the chance they’ll drag you in and make sure you don’t come out the other end.”

Jesse swallowed. As if on cue, there across the street and headin’ the opposite way was a group of five men, aged roughly from seventeen to twenty nine. They looked like they’d been in more than a few bar fights. Jesse kept his gaze subtle, but couldn’t help but admire the way their pistols shone on their hip. Like somethin’ out of a western.

The youngest one glanced over at the pair, gaze lingering on Jesse for a long, hot moment. He winked, and the blush that exploded across Jesse’s dark skin couldn’t have hidden from the wise gaze of his father.

They stopped and the men across the street kept walkin’. James turned Jesse to him, hand firm in its concern as dark eyes met. “Jesse, son, promise me you won't let men like that take advantage of you,” he said. “Stay away from them.”

“I promise, pa,” Jesse agreed halfheartedly. James could read it in his face that he didn’t really mean it, that he didn't really plan to stay away, and the pain in his eyes was almost enough to make Jesse try to promise better. To at least be more convincing.

The small and vindictive part of himself that he hated wanted to make his father hurt for the years they didn't have.

“Listen to me, darlin’,” he said. “There are men like me all over the world. You and I know that I ain’t a good man and I can’t claim to be one. Your mama had to learn that the hard way and I try every day to make sure I don’t do the same thing to you. I can’t make you listen to me, but Jesse - they try anythin’, I want you to shoot ‘em.”

“Thought I wasn’t supposed to use my gun on people,” Jesse pointed out stubbornly, guilt bubbling in his stomach. No need in punishing a man that never stopped punishing himself.

James smiled, sad and sincere. “Sometimes son, you gotta break your own rules.”

* * *

 

Jesse was fifteen. James was pushing towards sixty. Smoking had finally caught up to him, scarring his lungs and making him age faster than Jesse thought he should have. Despite it Jesse couldn’t bring himself to hate the warm and spicy smell of his father’s favorite brand. Not when it smelled so much like home. Not when now he remembered it better than he remembered the lingering smell of his mother's rose-scented perfume.

“Don’t think I’m gonna be around much longer, Jesse,” James said softly, voice cracked and worn like the leather of his boots. 

“Don’t say that,” Jesse protested. “I can get you a doctor, a real good one.”

“Doctor can’t help lungs like these.” His father’s eyes were sad and he reached out to pat his son’s cheek. “Made a lot of stupid decisions in my life. Can’t say you were ever one of them. Don’t think I’ve ever been so proud of somethin’ as I am of you.”

The tears that burned in Jesse’s eyes felt like lava, deadly and ready to scorch him alive from the inside out. He dipped his head, brim of his slightly dusty hat dipping low to hide his eyes from his father’s all-knowing gaze.

“Wish I had more to leave for you,” James admitted. His hand dropped and his gaze turned towards the ceiling. “Fraid I messed this one up, Jesse. I didn’t mean to this time. Really wanted to do right by you.”

“You have, daddy,” Jesse said softly, trembling like a leaf barely clinging to the branch that held it while a tornado of raw and dangerous emotions whipped it around. Even if it felt like a truth though, it also felt like a lie. He’d done right by him for six years so far. But what about those first nine? What about his mama?

He forcefully shoved the feelings down. His pa was on his deathbed. Now wasn’t the time to go pushin’ blame onto him. God, please once, let his mind have some peace about the things he couldn't change.

The hand that lifted to brush tears from his cheeks was warm and rough, like sandpaper. “Jesse, there’re gonna be men like me all your life,” James said. “And none of them are gonna wanna do the right thing when the goin’ gets tough. So promise me, boy. Promise me. Take care of yourself.” He nodded his head towards the bedside table. “Open that drawer.”

Jesse pulled away to obey, pulling open the nightstand and staring down at the familiar silver pistol, resting on top of a worn and weathered bible about twice his age.

“Listen to me,” James said as he watched his son slowly pull both from their home. He reached, taking the bible in his hand and pulling it close to rest on his chest. “I want you to have it. Both of them. And when trouble comes around, I want you to shoot like it’s your God givin’ right. Don’t let it take you down with it.”

Carefully, Jesse pulled the old and worn pistol from his own holster - the only thing his father’d been able to afford for him all these years - and replaced it with the silver and gorgeous revolver that his pa had cherished for so long. It felt too large on his hip.

“This here peacekeeper will keep you safe, son,” he said. “Even when I can’t.”

“You’re talkin’ like you’re gonna leave tomorrow,” Jesse said with forced cheer to his tone. “Don’t sound so final. You got some time left, still.”

He met his father’s gaze, and they both knew it wasn’t true. Jesse smiled like he didn't.

* * *

 

“Come on, get the load packed up and let’s go!” a gravelly voice barked across the warehouse, the noise echoing in the wide space. “Wayne said there’s reports of trouble a few miles south. We don’t wanna get caught up in any of this Overwatch bullshit.”

Jesse sighed, removed his hair to brush his hair back from his face before scratching his stubbled jaw. It was hot in the warehouse, sweat makin’ his hair cling to his skin, and he was bout ready to just tell the others to fuck off and deal with the mess themselves. Maybe go back to the hideout and shave off the stubble that was makin' his face itch like crazy.

“You bitchin’ out already, McCree?” a kid taunted, dark eyes hard and knowing. Kid was barely sixteen, rotund around the middle and a right sack of shit. Jesse hated him.

“Just takin’ a breath, Lloyd. Didn’t realize breathin’ suddenly meant I was a bitch,” McCree retorted. “Cause if that’s the case, I hate to tell you this, but you might be the biggest bitch of all with how you’re hufifn’ and a puffin’ over there.”

Sharp and cruel laughter from the others in the warehouse followed the remark and Jesse couldn’t bring himself to be really proud of it, not when he could feel his pa's eyes starin' disapprovingly at the back of his head even after all these years, but Lloyd was a piece of shit and he had to remind himself that he deserved it after all the stunts he’d pulled.

“Funny comment, come from a tran-”

The words were interrupted with a bang, and a scream. Peacekeeper gleamed in the dim warehouse lights and Lloyd fell, hole in his knee as he swore and cried on the dusty floor. Any thought of holding himself back had faded with the partially uttered slur, and even the ghost of his father didn't protest this time. Everyone’d turned to look at McCree, eyes wide and hesitant, and Jesse - well, he looked like he’d done nothin’ more than swat a fly.

“Anyone else got any jokes they’d like to share?” he drawled, gaze shifting to scan the watching faces. No one dared say a word, and McCree slid peacekeeper back into its holster and gave the side a fond and familiar stroke. “Figured you might say that.”

He turned back to his work, grim determination furrowing his brows as he lifted another heavy crate with ease enough to put most men in the gang to shame. His muscles flexed, broad shoulders rolled, and he carted the next crate over to it’s spot in the truck without so much as a sign of stress. Sure, his back hurt a little - but he’d be damned if he let one hint of weakness show in front of the bastards that hadn’t yet realized that Jesse was more than just someone playin’ pretend. After he slammed the crate back into the truck he reached for his pocket and pulled out a cigar - the same damn brand his father had always smoked, and when he lit it, if he closed his eyes and tried real hard, he could almost imagine the man was there again. That James’ arm was wrapped around his shoulders and his voice was murmuring words of encouragement into ears that had never learned to listen.

Smoke spilled from between his lips and he gave a soft sigh. Jesse had somethin’ to prove. And damn if he’d let anyone try and say he was something he wasn’t.

With refocused attention he moved to return to the shipments, ignoring the medic-in-training that had come to pull poor Lloyd away from the dust. He barely had a moment to even consider helping when there was a crash of glass as a window shattered, the sound of heavy-booted footsteps, and the loud and panicked cry of 'Overwatch!' from the lips of his comrades.

* * *

 

When consciousness came to him it was in part due to the glare of a bright and painful light as it pressed against his eyelids. He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to force the imprint of the outside world from his head, but the light remained: determined and cruel. When he realized there was nothing he could do to spare himself from the continued onslaught he forced his eyes open and stared ahead at the room. It was empty, for the moment, but for himself. He was handcuffed to a chair and sat at a sterile looking table.He glanced down to take stock of himself.

Shirt was torn across the chest, revealing a glimpse of crescent-shaped scar tissue under the swell of his pectoral muscle. He couldn’t see much of the former grey under the brown of desert sand sealed in by old sweat and dried blood that had to have been there for at least two hours. When he shifted, his shirt gave an uncomfortable crackle. His pants weren’t much better, but at least there were no blood stains and the dirt was dark, but washable. That was nice to know. He’d throw ‘em in the washer if he walked out of this shit alive.

The door opened. He looked up as a man entered - dark skin, heavy brow and shadowed eyes, a mean look to him that told McCree not to mess with a man like him. Not that it’d stopped him before. There was a woman with him, skin lighter than the man’s but darker than McCree’s. Her hair was long, about to her waist, and a silken black that reminded McCree of his mother. Another thing he hadn't inherited from her. Under her eye was a strange tattoo - Egyptian, if he wasn’t mistaken. She was dressed in blue where her comrade was in black.

“Jesse McCree,” the man said. He moved forward and took a seat in the chair across from him. “You’ve got one hell of a bounty on your head. How old are you?”

“Isn’t that in your files?” Jesse asked. The man smirked.

“Smart ass. That’s gonna get you shot around here.”

“Surprised just being here hasn’t gotten me shot already,” he retorted quickly. "Or killin' five of your men. Cause I might be a bit fuzzy on the details, but I definitely didn't come quietly."

The woman pursed her lips, but the man - he didn't seem to give a rats ass about any dead soldiers.  “We’re just full of surprises then, aren’t we?” The man tossed a file down on the table, flipped it open. Jesse recognized it after a few lines. It was his criminal record. “See this? This is what you’re bein’ charged with. Robbery. Murder. Grand theft auto. Got enough shit in here to put you behind bars for the rest of your life, and that ain't even includin' what we stumbled on today.”

“Didn’t realize Overwatch was into blackmailing people,” Jesse said, gaze lifting to clash brazenly with his. 

The grin wasn’t wholly unexpected, but there was something dangerous about it. Something that unsettled him. He couldn’t tell if it was the grin, or the manic gleam that came to his gaze. “This isn’t Overwatch, _cabron_. This is Blackwatch. And Blackwatch does whatever the fuck I tell it to.”

“Get to the point, Reyes,” the woman said in a husky, Egyptian accent. She sounded tired. She wasn’t old enough to be his mom - or at least she didn’t look like it, she looked maybe thirty at the oldest - but she carried herself like a mother. Stern and resolute. He’d seen the same expression on his mother all those years ago.

“Here’s the deal, McCree,” Reyes said. “I saw the way you fight. It’s good. We can make you better. You join us, we wipe away all these little transgressions.”

“So I give you my life and you keep me out of jail,” Jesse said slowly. That’s what this was. A trade of his life for a life - one in jail or one in whatever the fuck Blackwatch was. “Why the fuck would I do that? Trade one prison for another?”

“This ain’t a prison,” Reyes said. “It’s a plea bargain. You fight for us. You fight the good fight - ain’t that what everyone dreams about doin’ anyway? - and you leave when your time is up with your hands free and clear. After that you can go open a fuckin’ bar for all I care. You'd be able to. No one would be able to pin a single crime on your head.”

The woman stepped forward, placed a hand on the table as she forced Jesse’s eyes to meet hers. “We’re giving you a chance to do good,” she said. He almost thought she believed it. “How old are you, Jesse?”

McCree swallowed. “Seventeen.”

“Seventeen is very young to spend a life in jail,” the woman said. “I have a daughter. Fareeha. She’s turning twelve in a month. What were you doing when you were twelve?”

Twelve. Maybe she was older than thirty after all. 

That night on the front porch flashed before his eyes, the way he’d cried and the way his father had hugged him and accepted him for what he was. His father’s warnings echoed in his ears, painful and loud and enough to make that shame he’d long ago learned to bury in the back of his mind bubble up like a noxious gas determined to choke the life out of him. “Don’t reckon I was doin’ much of anythin’,” he rasped.

“And now you’re doing a lot of something,” the matron said. “But it looks like something went wrong for you. You’re a good shot. I can make you better. Reyes can make you a soldier.”

Logically Jesse knew that it was a good deal. It meant stayin’ alive. But Jesse couldn’t help but think that Reyes was the type of man that his pa had warned him about all those years ago. He swallowed, flexed his fingers, glanced between the two. How was this any different than when he’d signed his life away to the Deadlocks? Only thing that changed was who he was pointing his gun at.

“Do I gotta sign a contract, or somethin’?” he asked.

Reyes grinned - wide, almost skeletal, like a fuckin’ mask on halloween meant to scare the shit out of whoever opened the door instead of get any candy from them. “Or something.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the response I've gotten to this so far - just, wow, i'm so grateful and so happy that I've done justice by McCree. Hopefully, you all feel I've done the same with Hanzo. 
> 
> Forewarning: this chapter gets violent.

Hanamura always looked peaceful at night, despite the towering buildings that surrounded the small surviving town that still clung to tradition in a way that many had abandoned in the passing years. It was a pervasive aura that sat deep in his veins, and thirteen year old Hanzo allowed himself to relax back into the soft arms of his mother as she sang.

“ _ Ue wo muite arukou namida ga kobore nai you ni, omoidasu haru no hi, hitoribotchi no yoru. _ ”

Genji was laid out on his back in the gardens, stargazing interrupted by the deep pull of sleep, and Hanzo couldn’t fault his brother for the failing attention. His mother had a thin but sweet voice that wavered in the breeze, and he didn’t think that he had ever heard anything more beautiful before.

Hanzo shifted, pressing further into her arms, and his mother gently brushed her fingertips through his hair and kissed the crown of his head. Her singing faded and was replaced with a gentle whisper, “You are falling asleep, Hanzo-kun.”

“No I’m not,” he protested quietly - making no attempt to move or open his eyes. His mother’s lips curled against his head, and he knew she was smiling even if he couldn’t see it.

“We will all catch a cold if we don’t go in soon,” she said, pale thumb brushing the high arch of his cheek. “Then you will be upset all morning.”

Stubbornly, he shook his head and burrowed closer. “Just a few minutes more,” he protested. She chuckled, but after pressing a soft kiss to his cheek she began to sing again - the same song, sang so sweetly, like a gift meant only for the brothers to hear. Hanzo melted into her arms, feeling safe and strong and like, for one fleeting moment, he didn’t have to act older than he was.

The sliding of a screen door shattered the illusion, and before his father’s words had fully processed Hanzo had snapped to attention and pulled away from his mother as if she were a flame. She let him go, gaze focusing now on her husband, and Hanzo stood to bow respectfully. “Oto-san,” he greeted, blinking away sleep. He couldn’t see the sad turn to his mother’s lips as she watched her husband. He could only see the way the fabric of her skirt rustled in the breeze, no longer held in place by his weight.

His father’s gaze moved from his wife to his eldest and then to the sweetly snoring youngest, whose lower lip wobbled with each breath he took. Hanzo struggled to decide whether he felt embarrassed or endeared.

“It is late, Hanzo,” his father said. “Take your brother inside and put him to bed.”

“Hai,” he agreed quickly, bowing again and moving to face the far more lithe ten-year-old. He was closer to a stick than a person, all thin limbs and elbows to Hanzo’s gradually widening frame. Genji was out like a light - lifting him was easy, and Hanzo was used to carrying him around the house when their trips to the garden lasted longer than they should have. Even half asleep Genji’s legs wrapped around Hanzo’s middle and he clung to his back like a lifeline.

He could hear his parents talking as the door slid shut behind him, but he couldn’t hear what about. He refused to listen in. He trudged resolutely forward, determined to do as he was told.

“Nii-chan?” Genji grumbled against his shoulder, shifting and nearly throwing off Hanzo’s balance.

“Shh,” he hushed him. “I’m taking you to bed.”

Genji shifted again regardless, forcing Hanzo to adjust his grip. “Did Oto-san come home?” he asked. “I fell asleep again. I wanted to tell him goodnight.”

“Oto-san is busy,” he said. “You can greet him at breakfast.”

Genji groaned, young and childish and exactly as any other ten year old might be, and despite the fact that it was a typical response and that Hanzo shouldn’t have gotten irritated, he did. He bristled, stored away his ire, and was silent as he continued the trek to their rooms. Genji picked up quickly on his brothers sour mood and made no more attempts to speak. Instead he just continued to cling to his shoulders in silence. After a few further steps the irritation faded and Hanzo’s expression softened.

_ Genji is just a child _ , his father’s voice murmured all-too-familiarly in the back of his mind.  _ You have to take care of him. _

His grip tightened, subtle hints of blue creeping along his arm, and Genji mentioned nothing of it.

* * *

 

Genji was twelve, and troublesome. He didn’t listen, and Hanzo’s temper failed whenever they were together for long periods of times. He was hyper aware of the way Genji’s actions made the family look, overwhelmed by anxieties that he couldn’t wrestle out of himself. Didn’t Genji know that the council could at any moment decide that his father was unsuited? Didn’t Genji know that one day he would have to help Hanzo take over the family name? Didn’t Genji know that everyone was always watching and that one sign of weakness was all they needed to destroy everything?

Genji was twelve, and Hanzo felt like he was thirty instead of fifteen.

“Relax, Hanzo,” he father said softly, pressing a palm to his back and coaxing his son to sit. “You are too tense. The sword requires you to be fluid - like a stream. You must move like water.”

Hanzo had heard this a thousand times before. It was the same thing, a mantra in the back of his head that made him want to puke. His father only ever said the same thing, the same way - there was nothing new after all these years, and Hanzo wished that his father could say something in a way that made sense to him. 

Genji seemed to understand - Genji moved fluidly, mastering a sword like it were an extension of himself like he was expected to. Hanzo had never managed the same. It didn’t matter that Hanzo trumped Genji in technical merit - it didn’t matter that Hanzo was just as deadly with a blade as he was expected to be. When he swung his sword, it came with no feeling of satisfaction - no peace. It was empty perfection that left him feeling hollow.

“I don’t think that I was made to use a sword, oto-san,” Hanzo finally said. It was admitting a failure that burned green with envy under his skin. He closed his eyes.

“It is an important skill,” his father said. “But you are right.”

The admission caught him off guard and Hanzo didn’t know if he appreciated it or not. He looked to his father. His father looked to Genji, who practiced with a wild energy that Hanzo had never been capable of summoning, the moves precise but unpredictable where Hanzo fell back onto rigorous training time and time again. Hanzo lacked the creativity that Genji thrived in. The only time that Hanzo ever felt that he was any good (and his standard for good was almost impossible to meet)  was when he practiced with archery - but for centuries, their family had used the sword. His inability to be his best was simply another failure.

“I have seen the way you practice with a bow. You like it more,” his father continued. “There is something calm about you then.”

Hanzo licked his lips and looked to the ground. “It requires focus,” he murmured, like a small betrayal. “It helps me think.”

Whether it disappointed his father or not he couldn’t tell - he didn’t look up to try and read his expression, not when he was so certain of what he would see. “I have hired another trainer for you - I was never good with the bow, never had the patience that you have. Perhaps it is time for me to accept that you are not me.”

The words felt like a knife slammed into his back under the guise of a smile. Blue power slithered along his fingertips and he clenched his fist, determined to smother it away. Was it not good, for his father to consider him as a person? But was it not also bad, to not be like the man he admired so ardently? A compliment that destroyed as much as it attempted to build. Hanzo didn’t know what he was supposed to feel, and he felt wrong for it all.

“Thank you,” he said all the same, gaze falling to rest on his lap.

It would hurt his father far more to tell him what he thought than it would hurt himself to maintain his silence.

* * *

 

The arrow connected with the white ring around the center. Closer than he had been all day - and yet it wasn’t good enough. Yesterday he had hit nothing but bullseyes, perfect scores that filled him with a sense of pride - that told him he was better than anyone else before him. Now, he was faltering. 

Hanzo was sixteen, his eyes narrowed and focused with a determination to prove himself that was almost other-worldly. 

As before a strange power slipped over his bare arm, bubbling up and hissing in the back of his mind - bright and otherworldly blue to match his own determination. For a moment he considered letting the power go - letting it overflow and eradicate the target in one deadly blast. That would do the job just as well - no one could say where the shot had landed when the target was destroyed.

Immediately he released the arrow he had nearly notched into place, let it clatter to the ground, and forced his eyes shut. He heard the door slide open at his back, knew without hesitation who it was. He turned and watched as his father stepped into the room, gave a low and reverent bow and when he rose saw a fondness in his father’s stern expression that suddenly made him ashamed of his own inability to reign in his temper.

“Oto-san,” he greeted.

“The dragon is bothering you again, isn’t it,” his father asked. It didn’t really sound like a question. 

“I-” Hanzo wanted to deny it, wanted to deny the own apparent lack of control he kept wrangling with, but he could never lie to his father. “Hai.”

The elder Shimada motioned for his son, and Hanzo obeyed. He carefully put away his bow and slipped the dropped arrow into its quiver. When he moved to sit beside his father there was silence that he was too afraid to break. Was he a disappointment? There were whispers about him all through the compound, Hanzo knew this even if the others tried to pretend that there were not. People were afraid of him, afraid of the flashes of blue that would snake up his arm whenever his temper veered out of control. He didn’t know what they said, but he could only imagine. 

“They are far stronger than I imagined they might have been,” his father said. “When your grandfather first felt the pull of the dragon, he did not need to bind them until he was twenty-five.”

It felt like failure. Hanzo looked to his feet, dark hair slipping from behind his ears and masking his expression. His grandfather had been able to control his dragons for twenty-five years and here he was, sixteen, incapable of reeling them in. Was that what everyone whispered? Condemnations for a thing that Hanzo couldn’t control - had never been able to control? Even Genji, young and fresh-eyed, hadn’t the problems that he had. 

“I am proud of you, Hanzo.”

All thoughts fell to a halt. Hanzo looked up. His father wasn’t looking at him - he was looking ahead at the arrow-punctured target, something critical in his eyes that he couldn’t fully understand. He said he was proud. Hanzo couldn’t believe that his gaze said the same. How could he be proud when the evidence of his son’s inability stood clear before him?  “What?”

“The dragons have never taken so strongly to someone,” he said. “They have never manifested in someone like they have in you. You are destined for great things.”

“...thank you, oto-san,” Hanzo said softly. Even for the doubts he had, hearing his father say otherwise helped. Even if it was insincere as he suspected it was.

“However,” there it was, “They are becoming too strong. You must learn to control your dragon. Otherwise, it will control you.”

Hanzo swallowed. “What do I need to do?” he asked.

When his father’s hand rested on his shoulder it was light - a barely-there touch that later, he would convince himself he had imagined. “Tomorrow, we will visit Yokohama to see the Horishi.”

A strange thrill moved through him. He met his father’s gaze, dark and far too similar to his own, and every question he had refused to surface. So soon? Would Genji have to face the same? How long would it take? What would happen?

He said none of them. Instead he bowed his head and murmured his assent. His father patted his shoulder. 

“You are going to do great things, Hanzo,” he said. “But you must never forget your duty to your family.”

“Of course,” Hanzo agreed without hesitation. As if he could ever forget what his family was - what he was honor-bound to protect.

The squeeze of his shoulder felt soft, familiar and gratifying - an acknowledgement he craved. “I will not be able to be there with you.” Suddenly, the sense of accomplishment vanished. Replaced with disappointment he hated to feel. “I will be in Tokyo for the week. Do not forget to take care of Genji,” his father said as he rose. “He is prone to cause trouble.”

“I will keep him safe,” Hanzo promised. The promise was returned with a small pat, and then his father was gone again, disappearing through a sliding door and leaving Hanzo with a burning sensation in the back of his throat and spiralling along the width of his arm.

* * *

 

When Hanzo first visited the horishi, he had cried. The dragon had bubbled up over the surface of his skin, and Horiyoshi V had simply used the rage as an outline. Each whip and thrash of energy was translated into image, the black ink tracing its steps. When energy sparked across his skin, a bolt of sharp and angular lightening celebrated the outburst. It had taken five hours for the artist to complete his outline, and Hanzo had never been so relieved to leave a place in his life. And yet despite knowing what awaited, he returned the next week and let the man continue the shisei in silence.

Now, after two brutal years and regular visits around his uncompromising training routine, Hanzo felt nothing. He was silent as the artist pressed ink-tipped needles into his skin, over and over, pace surprisingly quick for a man with a stick. Ink bled across his skin, mixing with burgeoning droplets of blood, and was brushed away with a dark glove. The dragon was silent, rising only to rumble across his skin like a cat contented. If he closed his eyes he could imagine his grandfather, twenty five and proud and still bent low beneath the needle of Horiyoshi IV, whose pictures hung on the wall and watched every puncture and stroke against Hanzo’s skin. Would he have made his grandfather proud?

_ Shik shik shik shik shik shik shik. _

Unlike the first time, Genji was here now. His eyes were wide but he was silent, watching at the tense jump of his brother’s muscles, as the face of the dragon finally met with gentle colors. Genji was more affected than Hanzo was, his fist tight on his thigh. One day, he would face the same - and Genji had always had a lower pain threshold than him.

“So cool,” Genji breathed softly, watching as Horiyoshi V punctured the skin with a yellow-tipped needle, filling in one of the many deadly sparks. As much blue and yellow that dotted his skin, there was an equal amount of red - blood welling up on the skin and pooling in the curve of his elbow. After a moment the artist pulled back, grabbed a towel, and smeared the blood away. The towel joined the growing pile of others. “You’re going to do my shisei one day, right?”

“Hmm,” Horiyoshi answered, eyes never leaving his work.

_ Shik shik shik shik shik shik shik. _

“I was thinking it’d be cool if you could do like, a girl,” Genji continued, motioning vaguely towards his arm. “Or - in my armpit, a couple fu-”

“Genji,” Hanzo cautioned, gaze lifting to his brothers face. “That is not what this is about.”

“Come on, Hanzo. It’d be funny,” Genji grinned.

“It is not about what you want,” Horiyoshi finally said - the most words he’d spoken since greeting the brothers. Genji blinked. The rhythmic sound of the needle stopped.

“It isn’t?”

Hanzo sighed. If only he had listened.

“It is about the shisei,” Horiyoshi said. He pulled the steel tip from the tool and set it aside to grab another and dip it in deep blue. The blood dotting the lightening was finally starting to stop. “It is not about what you want, nor what I want. It is about what happens. It is spirit that guides the tool.”

One look at his brother’s face told Hanzo that he didn’t understand. He closed his eyes and resisted the urge to sigh. Of course Genji didn’t understand. He never understood.

_ Take care of your brother. He is young. _

The artist began again. Hanzo’s gaze shifted to the hand pressed to his bicep, to the nubs that had once been full fingers but still worked diligently to stretch the skin. 

_ Shik shik shik shik shik shik shik. _

* * *

 

Hanzo stared at the open field, at the large tree that towered at the end of the path, heavy branches drooping with age. Genji was to his left, wide-eyed and curious. His father was at his back. Hanzo was dressed in an outfit that had been designed following the completion of his tattoo, meant to allow his arm the freedom to draw back an arrow and let it fly, meant to allow the dragon to burst from his skin and tear into his enemies. Meant to allow him to protect his family as his grandfather had before him.

“Summon the dragon, Hanzo,” his father instructed. Genji was practically vibrating with excitement as he waited. “Watch closely, Genji. One day, you will do as your brother can.”

“Hai,” Genji agreed eagerly.

The conversation stalled as Hanzo pulled an arrow from the quiver at his back, notched it into place and aimed at the tree. He exhaled slowly, felt a strange and foreign peace settle over his mind as he focused. Here, the anxiety faded away. Here the eyes of his father could go ignored. The clan’s whispers were silenced. All that mattered was the tip of his arrow and his target. His mind was silent, peaceful, and in the next moment that focus came with a burning heat that began to bubble up from the guiding spiral along his arm. With it came a surge of excitement, accomplishment, and his worries faded away as the blue whipped around his arm and ancient power poured words into his mouth, and he roared with the rushing wind, “ _ Ryuu ga waga teki wo kurau _ !”

Hanzo had only seen the dragons once before - once, when his grandfather was old and Genji young enough to where he felt no shame in harassing the man until he showed them their families cherished secret. He had taken them to this very field, their father standing nearby and their mother stubbornly absent, and he had drawn his sword and held it  _ in no kamae _ , parallel to his face as his gaze sliced forward with steel power that Hanzo could never again separate from him. When he moved it was with a roar of words that Hanzo could not hear over the sudden rush of wind, and from his body came a red and feral dragon, as red as the ink that covered his right shoulder blade. Ink that was toxic - ink that was a symbol of strength. The dragon was thin and lethal, but destroyed nothing on its way to circle the aged tree.

This was different than that.

The power rushed out of him like lava, burning his skin and the still-healing image. His eyes were wide as the blue beast seemed to split, and suddenly twin dragons spiralled from his wrist with an earth-shattering roar that made the ground under his feet tremble. They raced towards the tree, maws open wide to devour the ancient life form, and when they collided the tree trembled and split under the onslaught.

The beasts faded, leaving nothing but electrified air and the smell of smoke, and behind him his father was silent. 

Slowly Hanzo turned, face carefully constructed to one of peace, and his father’s eyes never left the tree that Hanzo had nearly uprooted. Genji’s eyes were wide, spellbound. Childish energy defined his every shift as he struggled to find words, and it was their father who first broke the silence.

“No one has had two dragons since the beginning of the Shimada-gumi,” he murmured. His gaze fell to his son, and the smile made Hanzo’s heart swell. “You honor me, son.”

Then his hand was on Genji’s shoulder and he looked at the child, who was buzzing and still incapable of stringing together a coherent thought. He said with pride: “Your brother will lead the clan to glory, Genji. Follow in his footsteps and you will do great things.”

Hanzo swallowed, and thought it was selfish, couldn’t help but wish that his father could for once make something solely about him.

* * *

 

The week following his father’s funeral was silent. Genji was missing from the compound. Hanzo spent the days preparing, studying the things that his father had not yet taught him, too young to be a yakuza boss and yet held to the expectation all the same. The council seemed to think the same, staring at him - demanding, silently, that he yield. 

“We know that we are asking much of you, Hanzo,” his uncle said in a old and wise voice. His hair was greyed and eyes milky with the evidence of glaucoma. “But your brother is young. Genji must be put under control.”

“Hai,” Hanzo said softly. He said nothing more and the council took it as a sign to continue speaking.

“You have to take care of him,” his godfather said. “Before he ruins all of our work.”

“I will make sure he behaves,” Hanzo said. That was not enough.

“You have a duty to your family,” his great-grandmother enthused, wrinkled and older than anyone else left in the clan - it was her age that kept her on the council, and her age that kept those she cautioned in line. Hanzo’s fists tightened on his tights. “You have a duty to your father - you must finish this. Your brother is drawn to trouble.”

“I will speak to him once he returns home,” Hanzo swore. He rose, bowing low and reverently, gaze on the floor. “Thank you for your council.”

He turned and left the chamber, steps purposeful and eyes empty, his father’s words echoing in the back of his mind - intermingled with the damning words of the council until he could no longer tell them apart, until a promise to protect was warped into an oath to destroy, until he couldn’t tell if the council was more right than his father or if he had forgotten everything about the man already. Only a week had passed. Why did it feel like years?

Genji was in the temple, dressed for a fight, staring up at the old and pristine tapestry that had honored the family for centuries. Hanzo watched him silently, could smell the sake on his breath from where he stood, and the shock of green hair made his fingers clench.  _ Disrespectful _ .

_ You have to take care of your brother, Hanzo. _

_ You must finish this.  _

“Are you even mourning?” Genji asked, shattering the silence. He turned, eyeing his brother with a heavy-lidded expression that spoke of barely-hidden pain. “You have said nothing.” His jaw clenched. “You didn’t even speak at his funeral.”

“Are you mourning?” Hanzo retorted, voice backed with steel that was years in the making - years of training, of forcing down anxieties, of standing when he wanted to sit. “You have not been home. The council is beginning to worry. You are making us look bad.”

Genji scoffed, turned and faced his brother. “There is nothing that doesn’t already look bad as it is,” he said. “We are yakuza, Hanzo. We are criminals. We -” he inhaled quickly, breath trembling with tears. “We are horrible. Father was  _ horrible _ , and we never said anything. Why should we become him?”

Something in Hanzo roared to life at those words, at the insult that Genji threw out so carelessly. “Our father was a great man!” he snarled, stepping towards Genji with an internal violence that struggled to break free - dragons roaring in the back of his mind and demanding retribution. Or were they telling him to stop?

“Our father was a murderer!” Genji yelled. “How many people did he kill, hm? How many are we expected to kill now? I’ve read the ledgers. I’ve seen everything. Human trafficking - weapons - drugs. There’s nothing for us to protect, no great _legacy_.”

He spat the word and in return Hanzo threw a fist at his brothers face, wide knuckles slamming to his jaw and sending him back into the ornamental sword display that held the weapon Hanzo had never felt he could truly master.

_ You have to take care of your brother, Hanzo. _

Genji swung at him, and the fight began in earnest - fists slamming into vulnerable places, nails dragging relentlessly across skin as they fought with an unhinged anger that threw any aspect of honor out the window. Genji was bleeding from the nose and lip, teeth cutting into skin from where Hanzo had punched him, and Hanzo had a cut under his brow that dripped blood into his eye and disabled it.

There was a flash of steel and Hanzo bent out of the way, avoiding something - he didn’t know what - and his instincts kicked in as he reached behind him and grabbed the sword. The duo spun, positions shifting, and Genji’s back was to the wall. His eyes widened at the sight of the sword.

_ You must finish this.  _

Swords clashed angrily, sparking like the lightening dotting his tattoo, the markings revealed when a slice tore his sleeve from his body. Genji fell into familiar moves, desperate to guard while Hanzo fought to injure. Anger and grief and determination overtook him, vision blurred and angry, and when he sliced diagonally while Genji made to guard the wrong side of his body the dragons lept along the blade and seared across pale and delicate skin.

Blood stained the wall, the force of the swing slicing through air and cutting through the sacred tapestry. Genji’s body fell, burned and bleeding across his chest, the wound far too deep, too deadly, his limbs seared with the heat of a dragon that had never once been turned on the blood of a Shimada before-

The sword fell from Hanzo’s hand, his gaze fixed on the tapestry and a growing sickness mounting in his stomach with every wet breath his brother dragged through his lips.

_ You have to take care of your brother, Hanzo. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i spent so much time on the tattooing omfg. irezumi is hella interesting and yall should read about it.
> 
> if you wanna, give me a follow at mageswagger.tumblr.com. come talk to me about this or whatever, i'm usually around to answer any questions

**Author's Note:**

> my pet peeve: knowing that a character is trans and still calling them by the wrong pronouns in flashbacks. this whole fic is kinda fueled by that internal rage lol.
> 
> First chapter's focus is on McCree, second is on Hanzo, third is a convergence (probably)


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